Page 83 of Until August
“I’m good, Ma.” I waved away the plate of food. No idea how she’d heard Ari’s question when she’d just come in from the patio, but that was my mother for you.
“You’re all skin and bones. Look at you two.” She sized us up and pursed her lips, painted in her signature red.
My mother was elegant in a black linen shirtdress belted at her waist to show off her slim figure. Hypocrisy at its finest.
“A strong wind could blow you away.” My mother was exaggerating as usual. She was the queen of force-feeding her family. It was a wonder we didn’t all weigh four hundred pounds. “You girls need to eat more. Have a cherry tomato.”
I opened my mouth to tell her to back off, and she stuffed it into my mouth.
“They’re good, no? I stuffed them with the good canned tuna.” She huffed out an exasperated breath. “Why aren’t you eating?”
Oh, my God. This woman drove me nuts sometimes. “Stop, Mom. I’ve eaten plenty.”
“Who needs to eat?” my father boomed from the patio. I swear the man had supersonic hearing.
“Nicola and Ari,” my mother yelled back. “Bring them some of your meatballs.”
“I’m good, Antonio,” Ari shouted.
“Same,” I called. “I don’t need any more food—”
“Nonsense,” my mother said, pinching my cheeks like I was a five-year-old. “You’ve always loved your father’s meatballs.”
Ari and I exchanged a look. We were both trying to hold back our laughter.
“Antonio’s meatballs are delicious,” Aunt Celia yelled from the patio. “So juicy and tender. Tasty, too.”
“Tasty balls,” Ari wheezed out.
And that was it. We both lost it. It wasn’t even that funny, but we laughed so hard tears streamed from our eyes.
“What’s so funny?” my father asked, waltzing into the kitchen with a bowl of meatballs swimming in sauce.
I wiped tears from my eyes and sucked in a deep breath. “Nothing.”
My father slid the charcuterie board aside, set the bowl in front of us, and handed out forks. “Mangia!” He threw his hands in the air and then planted them on his hips, waiting for us to do as we were told.
“I don’t want a meatball. Ari, have a meatball. They’re so tender and juicy. Tasty too.”
“I’ll bet they’re bursting with flavor.”
Luca came into the kitchen with a beer in his hand and Ari’s nephew Dante riding piggyback. “You’re choking me, kid. Time to catch an Uber.” He set Dante on his feet, grabbed a meatball with his fingers, and popped it into his mouth. “Your polpette are missing something, Pop.”
My father looked at him, aghast. “They’re perfect,” he declared.
“If you say so.” Luca smirked. “You should take some forAugustand see if he agrees.”
I wanted to punch him.
“So, who is this August you’re all talking about?” my mother asked. Great. If Luca hadn’t opened his big mouth, she might have forgotten.
“He’s my sous chef.” There. A simple explanation. No need for further questions.
“Ahhh. The new sous chef,” my father said, nodding. Then, “August, you say?”
I nodded and tried to divert their attention by spearing one of my father’s prized meatballs with my fork and guiding it to my mouth. “Luca’s right. Something is definitely missing.”
Luca stuffed his face with another meatball. “Oregano.”
